


Tighter than spandex

by piratemoggy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Multi, and she agrees, where steve turns to natasha as he hotwires a car and says 'you know what fuck this noise'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piratemoggy/pseuds/piratemoggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He vaguely entertains the idea of walking out of the shop, out of this back alley in Brooklyn, maybe all the way to DC and just handing himself in to Hydra. His life has become increasingly stupid in the last six months, which is fucking spectacular given how stupid it was before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tighter than spandex

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely no idea where this came from. In which Steve and Nat are hipsters.

"Hey," says Natasha and Steve can pick up from the casual tone she is employing that this is in no way casual. He resists the urge to flick his eyes to the exits because godammit he is about 70% sure he could take her in a fight.

"So, there's this guy in town," Steve keeps his face neutral and makes a general 'I am listening but not commenting' noise, "and he's playing a gig, I think you'll be into it," she's producing tickets from jeans that look sprayed on, from underneath her striped hoodie, shoulder-length hair brushed over asymmetrically.

Steve accepts the proferred paper and blinks at it slightly, "The Winter Soldier? Is this goth stuff?"

Nat shrugs, looking very faintly abashed "Kind of. But you'll be into it." Steve raises an interrogatory eyebrow- he is so incredibly not into goth stuff.

"Right." He goes back to rearranging the 'O' section of the vinyl display- why are customers such animals? How the everloving fuck would you ever put Ozric Tentacles next to Old Canes? Do they not teach the fucking alphabet anymore?

"It'll be fun, you'd love his early funny stuff" in his peripherary vision, Nat is smiling in a way that suggests this sort of fun might involve Steve being in quite considerable pain, "you're not doing anything else on Saturday, anyway- don't tell me you're rearranging your records again or I'm sending you for an MRI."

Steve makes a grumpy noise and pushes his unnecessary glasses up his nose, "Nat. That isn't. Your sense of humor is shitty."

"You're shitty. Oh hey, Soul Guy is here, I'm gonna go and stare at his ass," she vaults the display, making it rock and drawing another, grumpier noise out of Steve. "This is the stock, you know!"

He vaguely entertains the idea of walking out of the shop, out of this back alley in Brooklyn, maybe all the way to DC and just handing himself in to Hydra. His life has become increasingly stupid in the last six months, which is fucking spectacular given how stupid it was before.

"Sorry, do you have the new First Aid Kit?" a tall woman with ice-blonde cropped hair is looking eagerly up at him and he feels himself relax. Stupid might be kind of... really good.

"Yeah, god, yeah. Although I need to get it out of the stereo and might need to play it like three more times before we let you have it, I literally cannot take it off repeat."

If the customers sometimes do a double-take of half-recognition at him and Nat's concerted pursuit of Soul Guy is only matched by Sam's eager, gentle concern for them both then Steve... he kind of knows he should care? That there's a drive in the flat upstairs in the box with the stuff neither of them tries to think about like, ever and that he got really, really engrossed in an argument about Ghostly's best artist even though he genuinely has no horse in that race, to avoid listening to some customers discuss Chitauri insurance. But. Nat's right, this is mostly fun.

　

Steve is halfway through his fifteenth listen to Lucius' debut, sprawled on a coffee-stained bean bag that's absorbing the sweat from his run, when Nat crawls into his lap. She's much more physical than he expected, when they first walked out of that mall, jacked a car and got the fuck out of dodge. She looks up at him through her hair and wriggles in a way that lets him know what she wants.

He's not quite sure why they're doing this. Well, he knows why they're doing it- it's really extremely pleasant and they both enjoy it a great deal but there is also the screaming, flatlining part of his brain that informs him this is potentially the most fucked up bit of this thing. This thing where Captain America and the Black Widow go missing, buy a record store and fuck each other's brains out while resolutely remaining not a couple.

But Nat is breathtakingly hot, wearing his Yo La Tengo shirt and she seems to like him when he's a bit scruffed up and disarrayed and Steve is absolutely certain that they're having a collaborative mental breakdown (or maybe not, maybe this is how their avoid finding out exactly how fucked up their lives and works are) but it's a very comfortable one, between Natasha's warm, vicious hands pulling off his clothes and the pleasing indie folk soundtrack.

　

He lathers her hair in the shower, rubs her shoulders and holds her waist, bent ridiculously to the point where he's nearly curled over her, both of their eyes closed under the water and they talk, in whispers and mumbles, about the stuff in the box that they never think about because it's ok to, until the hot water runs out. And Steve lets himself feel more guilty about the fact they've deprived the rest of the building of a wash for 20 minutes than the stuff in the box. Not all things to all people.

　

They have a loft bed and it creaks under his weight while they're sprawling on it in the early hours of the morning, headphones on, listening to their own music. Nat likes Kompakt and minimal and, for some reason, scandipop and he likes ...well, everything, to some extent but he's indie folk at heart. Bright Eyes croons gently to him and he's not even a little bit ashamed to be seriously enjoying it; _cast all the school and meditation built to soften the times/and hold us at the centre while the spiral unwinds_

Nat's eyes are gleaming at him in the dark as she rolls over, his Architecture in Helsinki shirt rumpling around her and he can't even be bothered to feel grumpy about the fact he can't wear _her_ clothes as she squirms to get close to his head, lifts one headphone and murmurs, low and full of affection, "We are _such_ hipsters," a genuine grin on her face.

　

Steve is rifling through the wardrobe to find his 'DON'T TELL ME TO SMILE' sweater, which he figures is simultaneously the most goth thing he owns and guaranteed to piss off any goths at this gig. He's feeling unnecessarily oppositional after a day involving more than one conversation with a customer where he had to explain why Le Tigre were better than The Smiths which just, god, what the hell is _wrong_ with people?

"Oh Steve, that is..." Natasha is smiling fondly at him as he pulls his head out of the soft grey fabric, "you look like an oversized, furious kitten."

He picks at the front, "I'll wear something else," and she actually pounces at him, gripping his shoulders like she's trying to pin the sweater to him, looking up at him with clear blue eyes

(and he thinks for a few seconds about other blue eyes, more clouded and troubled)

"This is perfect."

　

This is totally a fucking goth gig. He pushes his glasses up his nose, resists the urge to fiddle with his earring and slurps at the snakebite and black he has totally unnecessarily ordered to be a dick, primarily to his own tastebuds it seems.

But Nat looks happy and Sam is here and he really doesn't do anything else on a Saturday night, so.

　

"What the _fuck?"_ Steve stares, wild eyed, between the stage and Natasha.

　

"I swear to god, I did not know," they're running down a corridor and he absently notes that he's impressed she's keeping up but then, his entire brain is melting so he's not on top form. His every thought process has become a startled, short-circuiting _Bucky?!_

　

Stage doors were not meant to hold them. It splinters like matchsticks against Steve's shoulder and they're through to the dressing room and.

　

"Who the hell are - _what the fuck, Steve?"_

　

Steve is paralysed in the doorway, Nat looking round him. The flatline noise has consumed his entire mind.

"Hello Yasha, you look good," the roaring buzz between his ears lets up enough to look down at her and instinctive courtesy moves him to let her into the room but then it's back to staring at Bucky. Yasha? What.

"I..." Bucky does look good, in a sort of hairy goth way and now he's looking down at himself, over the leather straps and -is that armor or what on his left arm? Where the fuck do you even buy that stuff? "Err, yeah, I got quite into this mission, I think?"

He looks confused in a way that would break Steve's heart if it wasn't already smashed into a million stupid bits and "What?"

Bucky looks abashed, which is ...fucking ridiculous, under all that eyeliner and he's scruffing the back of his own head in an embarassed fashion, "I uh. I think I was sent to find you. So, I guess I did?"

　

It is not entirely perfect. Bucky, for instance, likes Fall Out Boy.

　

The loft bed needs reinforcing but it turns out that mostly un-brainwashed (Steve is very suspicious that the affection for Marilyn Manson is sleeper programming) Russian assassins are surprisingly handy at DIY. Steve nestles his nose into Bucky's hair (still long, still scruffy, still sweaty from the fairly energetic fucking he just gave Steve) and breathes happily, feeling the cool metal of Bucky's arm move against his chest as the other man strokes Natasha's hair.

The number of people giving them orders (that aren't for Warp re-releases) is down to 0, so it's pretty great.

 


End file.
